


lights from your house

by 1sleepydormouse (AlderBee), AlderBee



Series: saturnine [9]
Category: Archie Comics, Archie Comics & Related Fandoms, Riverdale (TV 2017), The Borrowers - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Borrowers AU, F/M, Stress Baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 11:38:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16912173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlderBee/pseuds/1sleepydormouse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlderBee/pseuds/AlderBee
Summary: Being a Borrower was good. It was a decent way of life.But he cursed his body, his size, in moments like these.





	lights from your house

The thundering slam of a door jolted Jughead from his nap. With a groan, he tried to burrow deeper into his little sleeping nook, fully aware of the stream of angry mutterings that began to fill the small apartment.

 

Now it was just a waiting game, because as hard a Jughead tried, once a certain someone came home from a stressful day at college (and judging from the mutterings, this was a bad one) going back to sleep was simply not an option.

 

Surprisingly, especially for a college student, bad days didn’t happen very often.

 

With a soft sigh, he lay still, basking in a patch of sun that warmed him from head to toe. The whole day had been so dreary and cloudy. The sunlight was a welcome change.

 

Half mumbled grumblings fast approached and it wasn’t until he heard a few slamming cabinets and the suction of the fridge that it all came to a short standstill. “Oh, Juggie. I didn’t see you there.”

 

Jughead didn’t bother opening his eyes, wiggling his fingers in the direction of her voice. “Fun day?”

 

A deep, cleansing sigh. “Well, not exactly.” Her voice tilted up in amusement. “I can see that your day was much more enjoyable. Though I have to say, the breadbasket is new.”

 

“I find the smell of freshly baked yeast bread comforting,” Jughead offered, opening his eyes when he felt Betty gently slide his basket aside . . . and away from the sun patch. “Hey, I was enjoying that.”

 

Betty wasn’t paying attention to him any more, back to gathering ingredients and collecting them on the counter. “I’m sorry, Jughead. I need the counter space right now. But if you’d like, I can place you on the windowsill?”

 

As appealing as the windowsill could be (Betty had generously placed small, handmade pillows  along most of the windows in the small apartment, each one easily accessed by Jughead with the strategic placement of plants and climbable furniture), Jughead didn’t want to be too far away from his human friend. The exhaustion was still starkly present in her shoulders and eyes, and he wanted to help her in any way he could.

 

“Nah, I’m good here,” Sitting up in the basket, he leaned back against the upper rim, hooking an arm around the back of it as he watched Betty quickly tie an apron around her waist. Like a well memorized dance, she grabbed all of the ingredients she needed, sliding them to the cleared workspace: butter dish, container of flour, salt, butter, egg, oil, and tins of honey, yeast, and salt. Ever considerate, she arranged her ingredients on the far side of the counter, leaving Jughead’s view clear as he pulled a large bowl out of the top cabinet and placed a small cup of water in the microwave to warm up. “How was today?”

 

With a groan, Betty leaned her forearms against the counter, arching her back to stretch out the muscles along her spine before releasing the tension in her shoulders. “It’s just been a day. I have a thesis professor who just refuses to stop being an asshole.”

 

Ah yes. The ongoing struggles of Betty’s senior year. Having never been to university (not particularly necessary for the survival of Borrowers), Jughead was fascinated by the knowledge and facts she constantly brought back to share with him. Her coffee table was littered with open books which gave Jughead easy access to read and turn the pages when he had the opportunity to read (it was one of his favorite things to do since starting his cohabitation with Betty). Since he stood no taller than the length of Betty’s wrist to the tips of her fingers, it could sometimes be a struggle to read the large textbooks she slaved over, but he could manage.

 

(And it was nice to feel like he had a purpose when quizzing Betty prior to her exams.)

 

He knew that Betty wanted to be a journalist, and she was in her fourth year of university. She had many friends in the city, but her family lived very far away, in a much smaller town called Riverdale (the location of a thriving Borrower’s community if Jughead remembered correctly). She worked at a small coffee shop and also interned with the local nonprofit newspaper that encouraged her passion for investigation. 

 

Jughead didn’t understand it completely, but he knew that Betty was invested on her final thesis focusing on modern gentrification and its social effects on minority populations (again, lots of words that Jughead struggled to understand, but he was happy to witness her passionate talks about her research and interviews).

 

It sounded very impressive, and a very good topic to help her graduate with all honors . . . but Betty was constantly dealing with a faculty advisor that frowned upon her topic and research methods. According to Betty, every meeting was just a repeat of her defending her dissertation, and she was struggling with the lack of support and actual guidance. She complained to her friends and family . . . but until the department head reviewed her request for a new advisor and approved a new assignment, her hands were tied.

 

Hence, a lot of stress baking.

 

“Ah, no news from Dean?”

 

Betty rolled her eyes, tying her blond hair back into a messy bun. “Everyone is moving so freaking slow on this. I bet if I was some rich socialite with a father pumping millions into the institution, this would have been handled  _ weeks ago _ .”

 

Jughead gave a passing thought to Veronica, a friend of Betty’s that visited a few times a month.”

 

Popping the microwave open, Betty tested the water with a finger tip before pouring it into the bowl with some sugar and yeast. “I’m just, graduation is literally around the corner, Juggie. I do not need the approval of my thesis to be a gray area this close to the deadline.” She sighed. “I’ve already invested so many months of work into it.”

 

Shifting around in the bowl, Jughead scooted to the end of the bowl closer to Betty and crossed his arms over the rim. “Don’t worry, Betty. I’m sure that Dean will see all of the work you’ve already done and do the right thing.” 

 

“Yeah, well, the dean better get his butt in gear.” Pulling another bowl closer to her, she began mixing some flour, sugar, cardamom.

 

Watching Betty’s easy movements, Jughead decided that he need a break from relaxing and climbed down onto the kitchen counter. This was a familiar recipe, and a usual go-to for days like this. The steps were easy, and it gave the woman ample opportunity to take some frustration out on dough.

 

Next steps in mind, he made his way to a smaller bowl, pulling it closer to Betty before using both arms to carefully heft water and oil into the bowl. As he reached for the wooden honey dipper, Betty cracked an egg into his bowl, taking a fork and whisking the wet ingredients while Jughead kept a steady stream of honey flowing into the mixture.

 

Once Betty was satisfied with the mixture, she moved to the proofing yeast, pouring it into the flour before adding the wet ingredients. Jughead handed her a long, wooden spoon, which she used to quickly combine everything. Leaving her to it, Jughead moved onto one of his favorite parts: making a mess.

 

Rolling up his sleeves, he reached into a wide bowl of flour and began to scatter armfuls of it over any space of empty counter he could find. He always ended up with flour all over him as well, slowly turning into a mini ghost version of himself, but he loved the freedom of it . . . and the smile it always brought to Betty’s face while she watched him.

 

“You are the best sous-chef, Juggie,” she giggled, watching him run back and forth along her counter. He always left behind small footprints in the flour piles that formed in his wake, and it was something she couldn’t seem to get enough of. The background of her phone was a picture of their last bread-making fiasco: tiny footprints trampling a floury field. 

 

Jughead didn’t really get it, but whatever Betty liked couldn’t be all that bad.

 

“So you say,” Jughead began to feel his breath get heavy from all the physical exertion, inhaling plumbs of flour dust that made him sneeze. “All this bread baking is making me exercise more than I care to.”

 

Laughing, Betty waited for Jughead to move himself to the side, patting and brushing at his clothes  before dumping the mushy contents of her bowl onto the prepared surface. “You don’t ever see me saying anything about your numerous naps.”

 

Jughead huffed. “And you better keep it that way.”

 

Betty’s laughter faded, but her smile stayed soft on her face as she began to fold and knead the dough. 

 

When she worked dough, it was a full-body experience for Jughead. Dropping into a comfortable squat before straightening his legs out before him and slouching back into his hands, watching while Betty’s arms flexed and bent with the motions of slowly molding the dough into a smooth, shiny ball. With each roll and fold, Betty rose onto her toes, leaning forward and pressing her weight into the counter. The exertion tended to release strands of blond to frame her face, eyes only partially focused on the task before.

 

Once, Jughead had asked Betty why she baked so much. She didn’t tend to eat much of what she made, instead opting to give Jughead as much as he could manage before taking the rest to a study group or a class or to work where she would let others eat the rest. Borrowers didn’t bother with useless tasks that didn’t directly affect their survival. Sharing a world with huge humans and other impossible situations didn’t lend time for frivolous things.

 

And making food that wasn’t for your own consumption? It was very strange to Jughead.

 

Betty hadn’t responded right away, and thinking back on it, Jughead realized that Betty was trying to determine how honest she would allow herself to be. Not because she distrusted Jughead, but because she didn’t want to show herself in a different light. Reveal herself to anyone that she was anything more than the successful and confident college student everyone thought she was.

 

“Uh, before we met, I moved here for college. My first year was so busy. Transitioning from high school to college, from living home to on my own, it was all very hard. I was able to keep myself from feeling too lonely during the transition. I mean, I had friends, I  _ still _ have friends, but I worried about complaining to them about how much I missed my family or how hard it was to keep going. I could have talked to my professors . . . and there is a counseling office where I can get some help, but none of it felt like it was right.” She had shrugged dismissively. “Looking back, I’m pretty sure that I just wanted a good, big hug. My family was always close, and we didn’t have any trouble showing it. I think I may have been a bit touch starved, and it’s pretty weird to tell your friends that you need a minimum of five hugs a week to make it through to the next.”

 

To fill the hole made by this loneliness, Betty fell into bread making.

 

The physical exertion, the pliable dough under her hands, the rising smell of yeast, all of these components replaced the need for a hug, bringing a level of comfort that kept the loneliness from being too all consuming. 

 

Betty had grinned at him. “Besides, I get a lot of hugs when I bring baked goods to any meetings.”

 

Jughead took in the sight of Betty, pressing harder and harder into the dough, the wrinkle between her eyebrows digging deeper. All he could see was a human woman, weighed down by anxiety and loneliness and frustration.

 

All he could see was a woman who wanted a hug.

 

More than anything, Jughead wished he could do so.

 

Stamping down impossible wishes, Jughead tossed flour along the counter and onto the dough, staying aware of where the dough was sticking.

 

Betty continued kneading, unaware of anything besides the slowly transforming dough beneath her hand until it finally smoothed. “There we go,” she sighed, rolling her shoulders before taking a pastry cutter to cut the dough in half. Within moments, she had both rounds of dough nestled in oiled bowls, covered in a tea towel, and set aside to rise at room temperature.

 

Jughead took a discarded pastry brush from a corner and began to sweep up the extra flour. “So where is this loaf going to go?”

 

“Hmmm,” Betty thought as she filled the sink with warm water. “I don’t know. If it comes out really well, maybe I can use it as a bribe for my advisor.”

 

“You haven’t tried that already?”

 

Chuckling, she shook her head. “To be honest, I haven’t even thought about it. Call me Petty Betty, but I didn’t think he deserved any.”

 

“And he does now?” In Jughead’s humble opinion, he very much did not.

 

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he has been dealing with personal stuff and it’s been negatively affecting his work. I mean, I can relate to that. Maybe a loaf of challah will humanize me in his eyes or something.”

 

“You sure you aren’t a psychology major?”

 

“Oh, God, I would be the worst psychiatrist.”

 

“So should I call you Petty Betty or Bleeding-Heart Betty?”

 

“Shut up!” She laughed, flicking droplets of water at him.

 

“Hey, hey!” Jughead shook his “broom” at her. “Water does not help make my job easier.”

 

“Maybe I should call you Smart-Ass Jughead.”

 

“Go ahead. It would be step up from Pocket Jughead.” He hated that nickname, no matter how affectionately Betty said it.

 

Sticking out her tongue, Betty got back to making short work of the dishes while Jughead finished sweeping up the left over bits of flour and dried-up dough. Once satisfied, he grabbed two cloths, both large and fashioned to strap around his feet, dipping them in some of the left over water before dragging his feet along the counter to clean any left-over mess.

 

The two of them were a well-oiled machine at this point. Betty had no qualms with allowing Jughead to live with her, free to use anything she had for himself. Not one to mooch in the face of such generosity, Jughead made sure to earn his keep by helping with the cleaning. Borrowers were very good at innovation, and it was easy enough (not to mention fun) to fashion fun tools to help him keep up his side of the bargain.

 

Some of his inventions were purposefully ridiculous - like these rag shoes - with the express purpose to delight Betty.

 

If he couldn’t hug her, then he would make her smile.

 

That was his mission. His responsibility.

 

And Jughead took his responsibilities very seriously.

 

With their joint efforts, clean up was done in a few minutes, which meant they were free to keep themselves busy until the dough was done rising. Usually at this point, Betty would bury herself in homework while Jughead went back to his nap. 

 

Today, Betty dried her hands, rubbing lavender lotion into her skin before removing the apron from her waist and offering a flat hand out to Jughead. Without question, he climbed into her hand, taking a deep breath of the soothing lavender before she carefully lifted him, keeping him close to her chest as she walked them to her couch. He was careful as he grasped the soft cotton of her shirt, fully conscious of the warmth that radiated just a single layer beneath. Adjusting his stance on the cadence of her walk, he remained stable during the short ride to the couch. Instead of her usual plop, Betty gently eased herself down before sprawling over the soft furniture, laying her head against the arm rest and placing Jughead on her stomach.

 

Just as careful, Jughead lay on top of her, facing the ceiling and enjoying the warm that spanned his entire back. The slow up and down of her breaths was calming, augmented by the lingering smell of yeast and butter. He felt relaxed and cotton soft . . . and he could feel Betty slowly untense beneath him with each passing moment.

 

Again, Jughead was taken by the desire to hug the young woman he shared this home with. Out of everyone in the whole world, he was his best friend. His family. They shared everything, and if Jughead ever felt out of sorts, she was always there to comfort him. He couldn’t think of a better feeling than being fully encompassed by Betty’s presence: held against her palms, the softness of her cheek against his, feeling her laughter through his entire body.

 

Jughead loved her.

 

He wished, oh he wished, that he could share even a fraction of the affection she was able to easily give him. 

 

Being a Borrower was good. It was a decent way of life.

 

But he cursed his body, his size, in moments like these.

 

After a few more minutes of silence, Jughead felt her breath even out. Asleep. Probably exhausted. A few seconds more, Jughead shifted, turning on his side so that he could press his cheek against the softness of her stomach.

 

This was his lot in life. His love for Betty was his burden to bear. And he would bear it proudly.

 

Jughead couldn’t hug her. 

 

But he could love.

 

(and later, wake Betty up before the bread could over proof.)

**Author's Note:**

> Borrowers AU (inspired by my recent Miyazaki movie night). Betty is making a loaf of challah bread, and the recipe she uses is from Food52: Ima’s Challah. Title of the fic was pulled from Lucy Rose’s “Watch Over.” I don’t think I’ll ever NOT associate these two with a song when I write! XP


End file.
